Note 205 — Chapter XXI · THE ANTHOLOGY.
Reading edition
My sire begat me; 'twas no fault of mine: But being born, in Hades I must pine: O birth-act that brought death! O bitter fate That drives me to the grave disconsolate! To naught I turn, who nothing was ere birth; For men are naught and less than nothing worth. Then let the goblet gleam for me, my friend; Pour forth care-soothing wine, ere pleasures end.